


these winding roads we travel

by scratchyvoices (extranuts)



Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: M/M, hey there rare pair, more city fic needs to be a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extranuts/pseuds/scratchyvoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alvaro Negredo moves to Manchester, plays some football and falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these winding roads we travel

Alvaro reads the papers during Euros and decides that Nasri is probably a dick. 

“Only sometimes,” David tells him, but then again, David likes _Villa –_ who is a dick on the best of days _-_ so he’s not really good authority on dicks.

“Samir is misunderstood,” is what Cesc tells anyone who will listen, “you can’t _really_ hate him.” Which isn’t true, of course, because France collectively seem to have enthusiastically embraced the concept of hating Nasri wholeheartedly and with venomous vitriol.

Nasri is soon forgotten though - what with them _winning_ and everything – because after all, Alvaro thinks, what are the odds they’ll ever have to play together?

-

Nasri is not what Alvaro expects. In print, his smile is a smirk – smug, harsh, _infuriating_.

When Nasri bumps his shoulder in a friendly fashion and grins, he looks exactly the same, but also completely different. Up close, his dimples wink, and his eyes twinkle. He looks, Alvaro thinks, truly happy.

“Samir, it’s Samir,” he says easily, as though Alvaro is his friend already, “Welcome to Manchester city – play well or we’ll all hate you and the manager will throw punches.” It’s hard to tell if he’s joking, so Alvaro settles for the classic deer-in-the-headlights look until Nasri laughs and pats his cheek.

“I’m joking. I’m not that bad of dick,” he says – in passable Spanish, no less – and jogs off, picking up speed to barrel into Toure. David comes up from behind with Jesús in tow and coughs rather meaningfully.

Alvaro sees what Cesc meant.   
  
-

The thing about Samir is that he’s confusingly nice. He hangs off people, teases like a menace and pokes far more than necessary, as Alvaro finds out over breakfast. Javi is nattering on about nothing in particular – Alvaro lets the Spanish wash over the confusion of English, especially the particular strain of English spoken in Manchester.

“So. Beast of Vallecas” Samir says, sliding into the seat opposite him. Alvaro finds that he likes the way he says it – savours the way _Vallecas_ rolls off his tongue.

“Jaaaaavi, why don’t you share with us the new boys?”

Javi rolls his eyes, ever sassy (familiar, like the old days) “Maybe they like me better,” he says, and reaches over to nick Alvaro’s butter knife.

“Do you?” Samir asks both of them, but looks straight at Alvaro. Alvaro feels naked, as though Samir is looking right past his face and into his head. He stares back until Javi pinches him under the table - _hard_. He coughs, shrugs, and looks down.

“We’ll go out tonight,” Samir switches to English abruptly. When Alvaro looks up, Samir is still watching him. “Both of you, with us,” he gestures behind and manages to catch Hart in the chest. “Joe and I and Joleon and David. We will go out and have fun.”

Jesús looks up from his yogurt, slightly alarmed, because he understands at least the last bit.

“Maybe,” Samir continues, “we will ask the Balkans to skip orgy night and come with us also.”

Before Jesús can shrink down and combust, David materializes out of nowhere. “Jesús and I have plans,” he lies like the lying liar he is, “we cannot have time for you bad, bad people.” 

Jesús looks immensely grateful. Alvaro frowns, because _they’d_ made plans for a premier league football marathon yesterday and now he has no excuse to decline. He also frowns because he isn’t sure that he _doesn’t_ want to have fun with Samir.

Samir leans forward to tap Alvaro on the forehead, “Are you coming then?”

Alvaro finds himself nodding, and also finds that little fires seem to be set alight in his throat when Samir smiles as though Alvaro has given him both the moon and the stars.  His chest burns as Samir hops away to holler at Hart about the change in plans – at least Alvaro assumes that’s what he’s doing, the only word he recognizes from their exchange is “fucking wanker”, which is pretty universal and sounds hard and unnatural when Samir – still smiling - says it to Hart.

“You really need to stop staring,” Javi says in his ear, “and also crushing on other players.”

Alvaro ignores him steadily through the rest of breakfast, because of course, Javi is bloody _right,_ and Alvaro is bloody screwed.

-

It doesn’t make it any better that Samir is a magical player – Alvaro could watch him forever and not grow tired. He watches Samir turn Javi completely and flick the ball over Joleon for him –

Alvaro feels the ball hit his chest and drop to his feet. He hears Samir shouting at him to _shoot,_ and so he does. Their five aside team wins 5-2, and Samir pulls him into a casual hug. “They’ll love you, “ he says, “you’ll score many goals.”

Alvaro hugs back, let’s his fingers wrap around Samir’s shoulders and smiles. “Love all of us?” he says, and Samir’s eyes droop a little. “Maybe not me so much,” he says, “but people have trouble loving me anyway," 

Alvaro only just stops hugging Samir tighter. Instead, he says – and he hopes Samir feels his conviction – “They will love us together. We will be champions.”

Samir shifts so that he’s looking right up at Alvaro, not smiling, but eyes alight. “Thank you,” he says.

They walk back to the changing room together in silence, shoulders brushing every once in a while, their boots clacking in tandem against the gravel. 

Alvaro is more than screwed, he realizes because he’s going to fall in love – he can feel it in his bones _._

-

Alvaro is really, really fucking nervous. Not that he shouldn't be, of course, but he's played for Spain – he has his winner's medal – he shouldn't want to run back up the tunnel and have a sit down till he stops shaking. Hell, he’d take some of the tea everyone keeps trying to make him drink, even.

"You look like you want to kill someone," comes a voice behind him, because obviously fear manifests as murderous intent on his face. Samir pulls Alvaro into a half-hug and Alvaro allows himself to hug Samir back - tries to take some of Samir's confidence with him

"We'll be champions," Samir whispers, "They'll sing your name, _La fiera de Vallecas”_ And then he's walking ahead to take the hand of a little girl with pigtails and pink socks and Alvaro feels a flurry of stupid _feelings_ jump about in his chest. He gets passed a little girl too, so tiny that he has to ask (in gestures) if he's supposed to carry her up. He isn't, so he smiles down at the kid who stares up at him like Alvaro is the coolest person in the world.

Alvaro steels himself, thinks of the pitch and the ball and the warm Sevillian sun. For once, it's a good day in Manchester - Alvaro walks onto the pitch and lets the sound of football sink into his skin. Samir presses a warm palm against the small of his back, pushes his strength into Alvaro with ease and jogs off to take his place. 

The whistle blows, and Alvaro plays.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is largely set between when Alvaro moves to City and before the first match he starts at the Etihad. Mostly inspired by the fact that the two of them are usually the only ones out on the pitch before a game - that along with the cute post goal huggles and the idea that they _so_ want to bang each other. (soz about the abrupt ending btw, but I'm working on a second-ish part that travels through the rest of the season)
> 
> Thanks for reading my first foray into City fic after some hardcore serial lurking - any feedback would be loved with hugs and sparkles.


End file.
